


In the Still of the Night

by lauren3210



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Somnophilia, undertones of romanticising underage sex, undertones of unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauren3210/pseuds/lauren3210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry sleeps, and Charlie watches, and remembers the fire that burned bright in his innocence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Still of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** In the Still of the Night  
>  **Author:** **Prompt Number:** 19 submitted by **gracerene**  
>  **Kink Showcased:** Somnophilia  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Pairing(s):** Charlie/Harry  
>  **Summary:** Harry sleeps, and Charlie watches, and remembers the fire that burned bright in his innocence.  
>  **Warnings:** Dubious consent; content that could be construed as romanticising underage sex with a minor, although both participants are over the age of consent; undertones of unrequited feelings.  
>  **Word Count:** 2094  
>  **Author's Notes:** So, this is my first time writing for this fest, and my first time writing this pairing, I hope I do it justice. Grace, baby, I really hope this is the kind of thing you were looking for, despite the pov being one I know you struggle with. Huge thanks to **birdsofshore** for _forcing_ me to look at the prompt list, and then making it up to me by offering awesome advice to make this better. Title taken from the song of the same name by Fred Parris and the Satins.  
> 

**In the Still of the Night**

 

We don’t talk about it, this thing we do.

But then, Harry doesn’t talk much about anything these days, not after… well, after everything. He just does what he needs to do to get through each day, goes to charity balls and ministry functions, awards ceremonies and opening speeches. Goes out to lunch with his friends and back out again for dinner with yet more friends, until the pretending just gets too much. Until the eyes on him every moment of every day get too much.

And then he comes here, to my forest, to my dragons, to my bed. And for a little while, he can stop pretending, stop faking smiles and telling people he’s fine, that he doesn’t feel the heat of their gaze whether it be from awe or pity. Stop pretending that who he grew up to be isn’t crushing him under the weight of all that responsibility and gratitude that he’ll never truly feel he deserves.

So I suppose that in knowing all of this, the fact that I stare at him while he sleeps makes me just like the rest of them, all of us wanting to look our fill and not caring about the pressure it puts him under. But I can’t help it, because I can’t help but remember.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on him, all scraggly hair and bony limbs, eyes too bright behind such innocuous glasses. As though they could have hidden the things that he was capable of, the person he’d grow to be. I remember watching him fly through the air during the Tournament, and I remember thinking that I’d finally seen something that could match the grace and beauty of a dragon in flight. I remember seeing the way his entire being lit up as he entered the hall to see us sitting there waiting for him, eyes big and round in surprise that there’d be someone there to greet him, as though we hadn’t already taken him into our hearts from the moment we laid eyes on him. As though it wouldn’t be a struggle to do otherwise.

He’s different now, of course; we all are. Nobody can live through a war without coming out the other side a little tarnished, a little dulled. His eyes don’t shine as bright as they did the day of his battle with the horntail, his grin doesn’t stretch as wide. His laugh doesn’t ring with sheer joy like it did at the World Cup.

Except here, now, while he’s sleeping, he looks like one blink of his eyes could bring that sharp, vibrant boy back. That’s why I can’t bring myself to look away, no matter how much my conscience pricks at me to do so.

It’s hot, here in my little cabin. For as cold as Romania sometimes gets, we’re surrounded by fire and smoke, keeping the air at a constant balmy temperature. We’ve both kicked off the sheet at some point in the night, and now I have the perfect view that I want to keep looking at forever.

He’s facing away from me, arm hooked under his pillow, black hair like streaks of ink against the plain white cotton. He’s laying almost on his stomach, one leg bent, the pale arch of his foot resting against the other kneecap. The skin on his legs is littered with tiny faded burns and scrapes, marks that are so common place on my own body yet tell a much bigger story on him. His calves are toned, his thighs tightly muscled, his arse strong and taut even in sleep. Pale skin gives way to a golden hue on his back, evidence of times we’ve played skins vs shirts Quidditch games in the meadow behind my own childhood home. Harry’s childhood home too, for all intents and purposes. There are more marks littering the skin here too; burns and scratches and one raised pink line around his neck, a reminder of the chain that pulled around him, tight enough to choke him.

I’ve heard all the stories. I know what he’s been through.

It’s the perfect view, and I _want_ to look forever - who wouldn’t, after all, if they had Harry Potter naked in their bed? - but I find my eyes can’t keep away from his face for long. He looks so peaceful, so young and innocent that it makes my breath catch in my throat, sends tingling shivers down my spine. He looks so peaceful, and I know I should let him sleep, but instead I give in to the urge I’ve been resisting for the past hour and roll closer, give in to the need to touch him; the thrill of feeling his skin under mine that always makes my blood run faster, that drains all thought from my head except the need to be closer, _closer_. I prop my head up with my elbow and lean over him, my hand reaching out to glide over his skin, thumb and forefinger dipping into the dimples on his lower back, sliding into place so perfectly it is as though he was made for me. He’s sleep-warm, skin slightly tacky with dried sweat, and the back of his neck smells like smoke.

But it’s his face that keeps me captivated.

The moon is high in the sky tonight, slanting cool bars of light across his pillow. His eyelashes are a dark ink smudge against his cheekbones, more defined now than they were in adolescence. His brow is smooth, devoid of the lines of tension he wears throughout the day, a pale pink dent marring his temple where his glasses usually sit. There’s no furrowed frown pulling at the top of his nose, just a smooth slope down, scattered with faint freckles gathered by the sun. His jaw is lax in sleep, one hand curled loose in its place tucked beneath his chin, a scar in the shape of words barely visible in the moonlight. His mouth is parted around slow, even breaths, lower lip plump and red, and I know that it’s evidence of what we did last night, but it looks so much like he’s been biting down on it in concentration, staring down a dragon before raising his wand and shouting _Accio Firebolt!_

I’m achingly hard, have been since I woke and began to look my fill, and my hand moves before I even think about it, slipping down over the swell of his arse cheeks and in between. He’s still loose and sticky from earlier, when I’d held him down with my palm between his shoulder blades, thrusting into him hard and deep as his hands clenched uselessly in the sheets beneath us. One finger slides in easily, and then two, and then I’m pumping them in and out seamlessly before I’ve even realised exactly what I’m doing.

It’s wrong, and I know it, because he’s sleeping and he needs his rest, needs to recover from all that pretending, and I’m going to stop, I am. I’m going to stop and wait for him to come to me, like I always do. But then he moves, shifting in his slumber, the muscles in his back tensing and then loosening, a low hum in his throat. His knee shifts an inch higher on the mattress, opening himself up to me just that little bit more, and then falls back to rest. And I can’t resist it, that small voice inside me that says he wants this, that he comes to me for reasons other than that he needs to get away. That maybe he’s not running _away_ as much as he is running _towards_ something. Towards me.

Before I know it, I’ve removed my fingers from him, feeling through the sheets in search of the bottle of lube, cast aside haphazardly in our rush the night before. I slick myself up and fit my body along the entire length of his, eyes glued to his beautiful, innocent face as I let my prick slide between the globes of his arse. The tip of me catches against his rim and I bite my lip against a gasp. I work in slowly; he’s sleeping so soundly, and I don’t want to wake him, don’t want to watch the way his eyes cloud over with memories. I want to keep a hold of my own memories, just for a little while, of a boy so bright and vibrant that it seemed nothing could touch him.

He stirs again as I bottom out, and I hush him with a whisper. I slide my hand over his hip, across his taut stomach and up, fingers grazing the oval burn in the middle of his chest. I rub soothing circles into the delicate skin of his collarbone with my thumb and start to move; slow, careful thrusts that make my chest slide against his back. My legs fit perfectly along the length of his own, and I feel his toes curl against the top of my foot. I can’t tear my eyes away from his face, and I don’t even try, instead giving in to the urge to run my fingers through his hair, smoothing the silky strands away from his forehead. I can’t see the scar from this position, but that’s okay; the reputation that preceded him was never the reason why my eyes followed him across a room.

He’s tight and hot all around me, and it feels as though every drop of my blood is trying to get closer to him, leaving every inch of skin not touching him cold. His heat calls to me, has always called to me, a siren song louder even than those of the dragons. My body speeds up without informing me of its plans, and I hook my chin over his shoulder and whisper nonsense words into his ear, hand splayed against his chest in an effort to keep him, keep him just like this. And then he hums again, a low, content noise in his throat, and I can feel it buzzing against the tips of my fingers. But my eyes are still transfixed by his face, and what I see is what tips me over the edge. The corners of his mouth turn up in a simple, beautiful, _innocent_ smile, and for a second I can imagine his eyes opening, that pure fire of his raging in the depths of green. I press my lips to his neck to stifle a cry and spill inside him, hips flush against his arse cheeks.

His smile is still there once I’m done, my breathing loud in the silence of the room. I pull out slowly, unwillingly, and feel the rush of warmth from my release sliding out, feel it coating his inner thighs where I stay pressed against him. I don’t move away, instead lay exactly where I am, warm come and sticky lube the only layer between us. My thumb still rubs circles into his collarbone, palm resting against his chest where the faint rhythm of his heart sings its song, calling to me. My chin is still on his shoulder and my eyes are still on his face. He looks so peaceful, so innocent.

I want to keep him. I want to wake him up and see nothing but the flash of fire in his eyes, watch the raw strength of his muscles as he stretches. I want to keep him just like this, just as he was. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to go back if he doesn’t want to, that he can stay here with me and the dragons, let us both help him get that fire back. I want to tell him that I love him, that I’m not like the others who say that, not because of who he _is,_ but because of what I see in him. I want to tell him that I’ve always seen him.

But I know that I can’t, because I know that my little cabin is the one place Harry has, the one sanctuary where he doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to live up to any expectations, doesn’t have to be anything other than himself. And I know my Harry, and I know that he would try, and then his sanctuary would be gone. Harry has his own reasons for not saying anything, but this is mine.

So we won’t talk about it, this thing we do.


End file.
